


At half past Myriel

by minavagante (prouvairing)



Series: oh partisan, take me away [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Italy, Don Bienvenu Solves Crimes, Don Matteo AU, Gen, Translation, the infamous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:44:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/minavagante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day, in the parish of San Giovanni in Gubbio, wasn’t measured by hours and minutes – no! – but rather by the passing of Don Myriel on his bike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At half past Myriel

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Alle Myriel e mezza](https://archiveofourown.org/works/914852) by [minavagante (prouvairing)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/minavagante). 



> So the fandom lived together in peace. Then, everything changed when the Italian fans attacked.  
> Ok, I'm joking. What happened was: I made [a stupid post](http://seagreeneyes.tumblr.com/post/57053735512/i-dont-know-if-you-realize-that-in-italy-we-have) about [a stupid Italian TV show](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Matteo) and suddenly we had an AU on our hands.  
> You know how fun it is to create Modern Day AUs? Well, most of us put the Amis in France (as is right) or in the US or in the UK. This, I think, is because most of our fandom is English-speaking. But we Italians thought - cazzo! if the Americans do it, then why can't we?  
> And so we did. There is something incredibly satisfying in playing with the elements of one's culture and seeing how the characters fit in it. To see them look and act like you.  
> That, and the thought of Don Myriel running around on his bike was just too much.
> 
> Much of this, by its inception, is riddled with inside jokes and little cultural quirks that may be lost in translation. Whenever this happens I put an asterisk and you can go down to the bottom notes to read explanations~  
> (Also forgive me, this is a translation and it may sound awkward guh I did my best sorry)

The day, in the parish of San Giovanni in Gubbio, wasn’t measured by hours and minutes – no! – but rather by the passing of Don Myriel on his bike.

“Come have coffee at mine?”

“Yeah, at what time?”

“Oh, about an hour after Don Benvenuto’s passed.”

Thus the citizens had dubbed him, for his good heart, compassion and infinite love for the community.

That is, most people. The smart-alecks also called him Don Portasfiga*, seen as he always managed to find himself in the vicinity of thefts, break-ins, murders and abductions.

Don Myriel, indeed, had a hobby. Nay, a _calling_ : on his old bike, priestly garments flying, he investigated and solved crimes.

But on a regular day – in which no one had been kidnapped, had disappeared, had been killed or robbed – Don Myriel made his usual rounds of the neighborhood.

Nothing could stop him.

                                                                                                                                           

August 2001, 10:00 AM

Fantine sweeps the floor merrily, singing under her breath: _Cosa resteeeeeerà di questi aaaaanni ottaaaantaaa?”*_ while Cosette, her eyes still heavy with sleep, sips her milk and Nesquik, with puffed rice cereal.

Don Myriel enters the kitchen just as merrily and greets Fantine, joining her in his smooth tenor: “ _E la raaaaaadio caaaaantaaaa!”_

Don Myriel’s sister and Signora Magloire, in the meantime, have been awake since five, because everyone knows that after a certain age one doesn’t sleep much at all. They, too, are in the kitchen, watching the news, letting out sounds of displeasure at the umpteenth blunder of the politicians.

Don Myriel greets them cordially and inquires on how they have slept. Then, once he has received his answers, and promising to stop by the pharmacy to buy melatonin and an endless list of various medicaments, kisses everyone and… yes, you guessed it. He mounts his beloved bike and off he goes!

 

11:00 AM

Don Myriel arrives in the square ringing his bell, and stops just in front of the Caffè Francia. There, the owner rails against his six-year-old son, sat at one of the tables just outside the cafè. The poor child, it seems, is incapable of understanding the commutative property of addition.

“ _Che c'è le breccole ‘ntla testa_ , Grantaire?* If two plus four is six, then four plus two is still six! And what’s this scribble in the margin? Is that how you pay attention in class?!”

Grantaire shrinks under his father’s enraged eyes, and Don Myriel is moved to pity. He dismounts the bike and draws near. He greets the owner, who seems to deflate under the priest’s compassionate gaze.

“You know, we were thinking of broadening the San Musano – it’s only an orphanage, still, but we were thinking of making an oratory out of it,” says Myriel. “We would be happy if you could send us Grantaire” – and here he directs a warm glance at the boy, who blushes – “We could even organize some tutoring for Math!”

The barista huffs, then shakes his head. “The oratory may be a good idea, but don’t think you’ll manage to make something stick to this big  dumb head of his” – and here he ruffles his son’s dark curls, with maybe a touch too much force – “It’s his mother’s French blood, you see… All with their heads in the clouds, thinking useless bullshit, without bothering with the serious stuff.”

Right then, a group of children enters the square, shouting loudly, and Grantaire raises his head hopefully. The children are chasing a beautiful blond boy, flushed with anger, with stunning blue eyes.

“Angiolrà, Angiolrà!” the kids shout at him. “Is it true your parents are rich ‘cause they’re in the Mafia?”*

Enjolras stops and bites his lip. The three in front of the cafè have frozen, and stare at the exchange. Fists clenched, Enjolras turns towards his bullies and his mouth lets out a stream of profanities in furious (and absolutely incomprehensible) Sicilian dialect. Then, in lieu of running in the opposite direction, Enjolras throws himself at his pursuers, who shriek and flee, the blond at their heels like a sort of avenging cherub.

Once the children have gone, it is Grantaire who breaks the silence, enouncing clearly: “ _En-jol-ras._ ”

The dregs of his mother’s French accent round the _r_ of his name, bend the _en_. The barista gapes at his son as if he’d suddenly lost his mind, and Don Myriel smiles kindly.

“Enjolras,” he repeats, even if his _en_ sounds like _an_ and his _r_ is rolled and Italian. Grantaire still approves with a nod.

The owner sighs, then ruffles Grantaire’s hair again. “Come on, Don Benvenuto surely has things to do. You start from the beginning… seven plus three?”

Despite himself, Don Myriel leaves Grantaire in his father’s care and mounts his bike again to finish his rounds.

 

12:00 AM

Don Myriel finds them in a narrow street near the church: the furious cherub, Enjolras, and Combeferre, whose family has been residing in Gubbio since times untold. They’re sitting on steps in front of the latter’s house, and Enjolras holds the stage resolutely, telling his friend the events of the morning, all punctuated by dialectal expressions. The good priest hardly understands, but Combeferre nods sympathetically – either he’s used to it or he’s resigned not to understand one word out of three that come out of his friend’s mouth.

“En-jol-ras,” calls Don Myriel, pronouncing the name how Grantaire taught him. Enjolras raises his head, interrupting his rant. “Combeferre. Good morning!”

Combeferre straightens his glasses on his nose (blue plastic frame, huge on his face) and mutters a polite, “Good morning, Don Benvenuto.”

Don Myriel’s smile widens. “Have you boys ever thought about the oratory?”

 

1:00 PM

“Don Myriel, Don Myriel! Look what I made?”

At lunch time, Don Myriel always stops by the San Musano, to help with the children’s meals, despite the fact that the nuns keep grumbling, affirming that this is no job for a parish priest.

As soon as he sets foot in the room, a red-haired boy jumps at him wielding a paper fan as if it were a sword. It’s Feuilly, of course, one of the orphanage kids. A huge smiles splits his freckled face in two, as he opens the fan to show Don Myriel. The inside is decorated with a vivid depiction of Myriel putting shackles on a shady figure. There’s even a bloody corpse in the background. Over the scene stands, in blue pencil: “GRASIE DON MIRIÈL.”*

“Do you like it?” asks Feuilly, suddenly bashful.

Don Myriel’s eyes are wide. “If I like it? Absolutely! It’s a masterpiece, Feuilly! I especially like the shade of red you used for the blood.”

Feuilly is ecstatic. Suor Addolorata and Suor Genuflessa are much less impressed, judging by their eagle-like glares. “Feglì! Come, lunch is almost ready!” the two call.*

Feuilly darts to join the other kids, but not before having given the fan to Don Myriel as a present, and the latter insists on having it autographed.

 

2:00 PM

At two, Don Myriel’s rounds take him (inevitably) to the station of the Carabinieri.* You never know when a crime requiring the good priest’s cunning and knowledge of the human spirit might pop up.

It’s a lucky day (or unlucky, if you ask the poor soul who’s been murdered/robbed/kidnapped).

As it is, Javert and Valjean stand at the entrance of the station and argue animatedly, each invading the other’s personal space.

“Come now, Javert, Don Myriel means well. And you can’t deny that his help was crucial last week when-“

A vein in Javert’s forehead seems about to explode, as he interrupts the mayor: “No, I’m telling you, keep him away from me! This is a serious case, for professionals. The law cannot be mocked like this!”

Both become aware of Don Myriel standing a few steps away, with a knowing smile and his hands still resting on the handles of his bike.

He turns to Javert placidly, “Far from me to mock your authority, Captain. After all, my contribution is always minimal. It is you who deserves the credit, for how you strive tirelessly to ensure the safety of our neighborhood.”

The mayor sighs in relief, seeing how Javert has been visibly softened by the flattery. Don Myriel, perfectly reasonably, asks: “I should only like to know, in general terms, what’s the matter this time. You know, to reassure the flock.”

Javert does his best to maintain his gruff tone. “Well then, if it’s for the good of the flock… Come in, Don Benvenuto, and I’ll explain…”

Don Myriel, of course, does _not_ gloat as he precedes the two men into the station of the Carabinieri.

At least for the rest of the day, the people of Gubbio will have to give their appointments by clock, for their afternoon coffees.

Don Benvenuto, he is _busy._

**Author's Note:**

> ASTERISKS EXPLAINED:  
> *Don Portasfiga: of course Don is the address for a priest (like "Father"), Portasfiga was almost impossible to translate funnily as in the original so I didn't. It literally means Bringer-of-bad-luck. Like, he appears and shit happens.  
> * _Cosa resterà di questi anni ottanta_ , is a song you can find [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1jPzdY1yg0) and it is the epitome of nostalgia and angst (translation of the lines they sing: _What will be left of the 80s?_ and _And the radio sings_  
>  *"Che c'è le breccole ‘ntla testa, Grantaire?" - this is a dialectal idiom (dialect of Perugia, which is near Gubbio) that may actually be obscure for Italian speakers as well, so I chose not to translate it. Translates literally: "Do you have rocks in your head?," basically "Are you dumb?"  
> *“Angiolrà, Angiolrà! Is it true your parents are rich ‘cause they’re in the Mafia?" - Angiolrà was how we started calling Enjolras jokingly, basically transcribing the Italian pronunciation of his name. The jibe about the Mafia is because the South of Italy (and Sicily especially) is infamous (rightly or wrongly) because of organized crime. This leads to lots of prejudice and scorn by Northerners towards Southerners. Also, Sicilian accent is so fucking impossible to understand jesus christ (to be fair this is true of most Italian dialects)  
> * GRASIE DON MIRIÈL: Feuilly is a cutie and misspelled 'grazie' which I assume all of you know means 'thank you.'  
> *Suor Addolorata and Suor Genuflessa: it literally means Sister Sorrowful and Sister Kneeling  
> *Carabinieri: a force completely separate from the Police who does mainly the same job I have no idea why we have two it's just a thing that is. [Have a wikipedia article about it.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carabinieri)
> 
>  
> 
> I use a lot of dialects and mentions of accents in this, because it is something just very prominent in Italy. You can talk to someone and tell where they're from from their vowels and the rhythm of their speech. Not every region has a dialect as incomprehensible as Sicilian (example: Rome, where I'm from, doesn't. Our accent is still VERY recognizable) and literally everyone speaks straight Italian (I mean... everyone who's gone to school in the last fifty years. You may still have trouble understanding certain grandparents...) so we CAN communicate with each other thank you very much. There's [a really cool video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHToSfgqHps) by an Italian comedian about this. Starting at 1:36 he does the different dialects/accents, see if you can tell the differences ;) (MINE IS AT 4:00 ROMANS REPRESENT)


End file.
